Out with the New
by babybluecas
Summary: They say no one who tried to retrieve the Leviathan Blossom ever came back. But that doesn't stop Dean and Cas from trying. Soon, Dean finds himself facing another shocking turn of events that makes him question his loyalties and his long-harbored feelings.


"It's foolish to go there, Dean," Cas says, but doesn't slow down. "You heard what the vampire said."

Dean rolls his eyes, for the nth time this day. "All I heard was that the only way to lock up Chuck is that-a-way."

He doesn't have to look at Cas to feel his squinty glare. "I don't think that was grammatically correct."

Dean rolls his eyes and picks up his pace. They've wasted too much time already. "Come on, we're big boys, we can handle it."

The info had better be good, ripped out of the throat of some old-ass vamp that's been sitting in God's armpit since before Cleopatra. Torture and valid information don't often go in pairs, but sure does the incentive—in this case, the incentive of Dean and Cas getting maimed by whatever ancient evil guards the goddamned (hopefully goddamning) plant.

"No one who ever went there, came back to tell the tale," the vamp had said, right before Dean wiped the smug smile off—along with the entire head.

Dean's told a lot of tells he shouldn't have lived to tell. At this point, the upcoming threat is more of a mild annoyance than, well, a threat.

Cas is of a different opinion.

Cas has been of a different opinion from the moment he and Dean even stuck a foot through Michael's glowy portal, or even before that. Dean's spent the last seven or so hours filtering out Cas's complaining and the ingenious advice of "let's not go there."

Dean's never taken the friggin' angel for a coward. But then, Dean hadn't been there with him those first few months of Purgatory Round One. So he cuts him some slack and keeps on pushing through, and Cas follows, of course, though Dean gave him a way out, because Dean did fine here on his own, once. He can do that again.

It's only for twelve hours, after all.

So it took them a third of that to find the right path, along the river—always the river—to its source. Thank G—well, not him—it takes them less than that to reach the feet of the mountain. Funny, Dean never even knew Purgatory had those, that it had anything other than the endless forest.

But the river had to drip down from somewhere, and usually, the easiest way is down. So they begin climbing: on two heavy-set feet, on all fours, 'til it's full-on, gun behind the belt, hands-on, _Free Solo._ So, no parkour nasties better jump them now or they're done for.

They're not done for.

Not yet. They reach the top. Tall trees, fallen trees, crumbling ground, and in the middle of it, the sprout of crystalline water that pours down to belt the land. Dean doesn't turn around to take in the view. He knows what he'll see: the gray, more gray, even in the treetops.

This isn't sightseeing, anyway. It's focus on right here, right now. His eyes sweep the surroundings, his ears perk up at the smallest sound, but the sound's mostly the trickle of water and no danger in sight.

No extra-special plant, either.

"I swear if that son of a bitch pulled one over on us—"

"Quiet," Cas grunts, eyes fixed ahead. "If you're so set on risking both our lives for the Leviathan Blossom"—he lets out a deep, resigned sigh—"that looks like the place."

And by the place, Cas means—well, Dean should have noticed it sooner. The way the air folds in on itself beyond the spring. The way the gray becomes darker, shiftier, the longer he stares at it. It's gotta be some sort of magic, which is the last thing Dean needs, in Purgatory of all places. What happened to bare instincts and purity?

The blade firm in hand, Dean moves, feet set carefully with each step, not to make a sound. Cas follows close behind him. They walk beyond the spring, until the trees part and their skin begins to prickle. The cloak falls, revealing the scorched ground lain thick with skeletons, skulls chopped off their spines.

"Looks like we found the missing monsters," Dean mutters, but his eyes don't leave the dark slit in the grand rocks before them, in the wall of stone reminiscent of ancient monolithic rather than a nature-made maze.

This ain't a good place. And it's not just Dean's spidey sense telling him this. There's something here, something powerful. Something created to guard the Leviathan Blossom if Dean was to bet.

"Oh, well." Dean shrugs, aims his gun straight and starts for the entrance.

Cas's strong grip holds him back.

"Don't be daft," he says, handing Dean his angel blade. Right, that one's got a bigger murder range than his silver bullets, or the machete. If he's to have any chance of killing the thing, he'll need the biggest gun he can get. "You have to strike without hesitation so it doesn't get the upper hand."

Dean nods and, vigilant, slips into the narrow opening.

He doesn't get to get far when a deep, throaty voice resounds. "When will you all learn to leave me alone?"

The voice is distorted by but there's something eerily familiar about it. Dean has no time to dwell on it, not now that he's lost his element of surprise.

"Sorry, pal," Dean calls back, eyes searching for the smallest movement, "must have missed the memo."

There's quiet for a moment and Dean risks casting a glance at Cas, who lingers a few steps behind him.

"No, this is impossible," the voice comes again, quieter, this time, and not so firm. Confused, almost. "You can't be—"

But it's closer, too. Very, very close.

"It's coming," Cas grunts and something turns in Dean's stomach. "Strike, now!"

And Dean strikes. He jumps around the corner and thrusts the blade where a human-shaped creature's heart would be. Next thing he knows, the blade is yanked out of his hand as his wrist is in an iron grasp, his body twisted around and slammed against the hard rock, only hard enough to disorient him, not harm.

He snaps around to face his enemy, the gun pulled from out of his belt and aimed in one quick motion. His finger hover over the trigger. He hesitates.

The creature—the man—before him is shaggy and dirty, a ripped up hospital pajamas that used to be white, a worn-out coat that Dean knows used to be tan. There's a dark scruff on his sharp face and it feels like an old deja vu.

It's Cas.

Except, it can't be Cas, because Cas was just behind Dean, all sharp-dressed and squeaky clean.

"Leviathan bitch, really?" Dean snorts and pulls out his machete. "I expected something more from all the hype."

"I'm not"—the leviathan gasps, dodging Dean's swing—"a leviathan, Dean."

It's been a long time since Dean had to deal with leviathans. He almost forgot how unsettling it is to look at them when they wear a face of a loved one. To hear their words spoken in the exact same voice, exact same manner.

But the uncanny valley isn't perfect. Maybe Dean'd have fallen for it if he hasn't watched Cas for the last eight years, the way he's changed from the fearsome soldier of God into…a human. A disenchanted one, lost and confused, prone to making terrible choices—a poor schmuck as miserable as the rest of them.

This guy? With his quick, rigid movements, angelic combat style, with that sharp look in the eyes and mere annoyance painted on his face, as he blocks Dean's attacks—they feel like a long-forgotten echo.

Echo of a man who watches Dean get manhandled and disarmed, from safe distance, instead of joining the fight.

"A little help here, Cas?" Dean calls, his face back against the rock wall, his arms restricted behind his back. Still, he's struggling to wiggle out of the hold.

"I'm trying to help you, Dean," the leviathan Cas says, right by Dean's head.

"Not talking to you, Chompy."

The leviathan stiffens, pressing harder on Dean.

"He's here?" he asks sharply.

"Cas? Yeah. And he's about to Borax your ass." That is, once he finally gets around to it. "Any time now, Cas!"

"I am not a leviathan, Dean," he says, emphasizing each word. Then he leans even closer, quietly, right into Dean's ear, he adds, "And that thing is not Castiel."

Now it's Dean that freezes. The idea's preposterous, yet somehow strikes a weird cord in Dean. It must be that voice, that force of it, the way every fiber of Dean's being wants to believe it, even though he knows he can't. What kind of stupid mind game is this?

"Does that work on the ladies?"

There's an annoyed sigh and the hold loosens—just a show of good will, not enough to let Dean escape.

"Stop fighting and I'll prove it to you."

All of Dean's weapons lie good ten feet away and he's screwed as is. Agreeing will at least get this sick monster off his back and give him a fighting chance.

"Alright."

The leviathan lets Dean go and backs away, but his eyes are stuck on Dean. Still, he doesn't react when Dean moves, a few steps to the right, to see around the corner, to look for Cas where he last saw him. What the hell's taking him so much?

"If one of your pals ate my friend, you're all so dead," Dean hisses through his teeth. "I don't care how long it—"

"He's probably long gone, Dean. His jig was up, so he fled."

There's an angel blade in his hand, the same he took from Dean. He weighs it in his hand, almost as if he missed it.

Then he rolls up his left sleeve and put the blade to his skin. A gesture so familiar, something Cas must have seen Dean do a dozen times. No, not this Cas.

"See?" he says, showing Dean the cut. There's no leviathan goo pouring out of it. Only red blood. "Not a leviathan."

"Shifter then."

The not-leviathan lets out a long, deep sigh. "Do you want to pull my finger to make sure I'm not?"

Dean drags a palm down his face. There are still so many options; he could still be a ghoul, a revenant, a jefferson starship. Freakin' Eve, if she landed back here after Dean ganked her. They could be at it all day and Dean doesn't even have all the needed tools and spices with him.

"Wait, if you're Cas, shouldn't you be bleeding light when cut with that thing?"

"He should," Cas's voice comes before the not-leviathan can open his mouth to answer. Dean can't help the relief when he sees Cas—his Cas—round the corner. But there's something odd in the way he moves. Dean can't put his finger on it. "He would if I hadn't stolen his grace."

Dean blinks. He must have not heard that right.

"What are you saying, Cas?"

"Oh, I know. I should be doing the whole"—Cas slumps his shoulders and furrows his brow, eyes wide and begging, head cocked to the side—"Deeeean, it's me! I'm the real Cas! You have to believe me! I love you!"

There's something heavy expanding in Dean's chest. He watches Cas, his Cas, his best friend, his—watches his posture change into a crooked, spider-like thing, his face twist with big, creepy smile, so unnaturally wide the Cheshire Cat's got nothing on him.

"Cas," comes out of Dean's clenched throat. But what he's looking at isn't Cas anymore—never was, though it's still wearing Cas's skin, so ill-fitting and defiled.

"Gotta say," the thing purrs in its new, mocking tone, "eight years is a hell of a score. Though I was counting on double digits."

This has to be some fucking nightmare. Must be Chuck playing some messed up trick on him to stop him from getting the Blossom. His newest, shocking plot twist, defying the ground rules of the show. Or maybe it was Michael who sent him into this Twilight Zone only disguised as Purgatory—obedience to one's father isn't that easy to break overnight.

"Frankly, I was a little disappointed in how easy it was to deceive you," the things keeps going, keeps getting closer to Dean, as Dean takes a few steps back. "I knew it wouldn't be too hard with the angels once I got all the…glowy bits in all the right places. But you? The great Dean Winchester! God's favorite, hand-picked chew-toy! Come on, Dean. I was hardly even trying."

In Dean's defense, last time he saw the real Cas, dude didn't have all his marbles in order. Anything better than that seemed like good news. Great news. So Dean was fine with who Cas was. Maybe he was a little different, Dean sure noticed that, but then, since Dean met him, Cas had a penchant for changing. From the warrior of God with a stick up his ass to a freedom fighter, to the public enemy number one.

"Do you want a gold star for that?"

The thing lets out a salve of laughter so creepy it raises Dean's hairs.

"I got all I wanted, all that sweet chaos all those…_feelings._ Why do you think I stuck around? You got so much shoved down there." The thing slips out his tongue and licks his lips so ostensibly Dean struggles not to avert his eyes. "And then something even better happened—I've lived for so long, but I finally found my purpose. The recent events made me realize I had such a big role to play. God's perfect Trojan Horse. Poking the two of you—well, Sam more so—in the _worst_ possible direction."

Dean grinds his teeth, sifting the air in and trying to hold down his bile. Of course, it all comes down to Chuck. Whether he planned it this way all along, or Mr Face Off just happened to stroll into this story, Chuck sure got some fun out of that one with all of his terrible ideas with cosmic consequences.

"You do love the sound of your own voice," Dean barks and backs away until he reaches Cas. The real Cas.

God.

All these years Cas has been stuck here. All these years, Dean didn't come back for him. How could he ever even suspect? The thing wearing Cas's face fooled him completely. For every time Dean had even a shadow of a suspicion there might be something up with Cas, there were half a dozen other things—the brainwash, the lost grace, the freakin' satan using him as his condom.

"Not my voice," the thing says. "Though it is quite sexy. This whole body"—he adjusts the lapels of the coat with a small, self-content smile—"all cute and handsome. I get all the compliments! It's a shame I'll have to lose it."

"Oh yeah, real shame," Dean spits out with a fake smile.

He feels for Cas's hand behind him, grazes the skin of his palm with his fingertips. It aches. It fucking aches, trying to comprehend it all. Eight years by Cas's side, eight years of fighting together and drinking beer together, and laughing and—

And it was all a big fucking scam.

Dean's so fucking done with the grand reveals.

"But then, you," the thing keeps going, lifting its finger and pointing it right at Dean, "you're the prettiest of them all."

"Don't you dare touch him," Cas bellows, trying to get in front of Dean, angel blade in his hand, as if he could defend him, only a human himself.

Dean stops him with a firm grasp on his palm. His thumb caresses Cas's knuckles, fingers slide down to where Cas's hot skin meets the cold still of the blade. "I got this."

"Oh, I touched him plenty," the thing says, staring Cas dead in the eye. "Although maybe not as much as we'd like, huh?" His eyes snap to Dean.

This is his chance, maybe his only chance to fix things.

"You son of a bitch." Dean shakes his head, eyes closed. "You just had to ruin everything."

The thing tilts his head, eyes narrowed at Dean and in that moment he's back, Dean's Cas is back. If only it could stay this way, if only Dean listened to him and turned around.

"Why couldn't you just keep pretending?" Dean takes a step forward. "Try to convince me? You know I'd believe you." Another step. "You know I'd want to believe you."

For the first time, the thing wearing Cas's—now so painfully Cas's—face is speechless. Watching Dean come closer, finally able to look him in the eyes, again.

"We were gonna get there, eventually, weren't we?" Dean musters in the softest voice and watches his jaw tense. "And now you're just gonna leave me with this guy I barely know anymore? Take my body in all the wrong ways?"

There are only a few feet separating them now and the guy doesn't move. He looks cornered, almost devastated. His bottom lip quivers but he doesn't make a sound. If he feeds on Dean's emotions, Dean's sure gonna give him some.

"I'm tired, man. I just learned my whole life's been entertainment, and now this? I wanna go back." Dean's voice nearly breaks.

Dean's looking at the man who's been beside him for eight goddamned years. The man who was never just a friend to Dean, even if neither of them ever admitted it. Cas or no Cas, it still counts for something.

"How?"

There's a way. Now, Dean's almost in his arm's reach, almost enough to be touched, enough for his fingers to stroke Dean's head and change things back to what they used to be.

"How about you erase the last hour from my memory and we pick up where we left off?" Dean swallows hard, trying to get rid of the lump in his throat. "Do it right, this time? Can we do that, _Cas?"_

The thing's—Cas's—eyes grow wide. "Do—do you really mean that?"

Dean takes a deep breath to stop his voice from shaking.

"I want you to be Cas so badly."

"Okay." He smiles, a soft smile; Cas's smile. "Okay, let's do this."

He takes a step forward, his hand raised, two fingers reaching to Dean's temple. But before he gets to touch Dean's head, before he gets to scrape his brain and put Dean back into the web of his lies, the mystification that Dean longs for, Dean twists the steel handle in his palm and thrusts it upwards.

The blade pierces through the thing's chin, straight into its brain. The white light flashes through his eyes, his mouth, wide open in shock. Dean yanks the blade out and the thing drops down to the ground, dead.

"But you're not Cas," Dean says, "you sick son of a bitch."

Just 'cause Dean knows it, doesn't mean he can hold back the tears welling in his eyes. It wasn't Cas but it still _was_ Cas. Looked like him, felt like him, took Dean's heart like him. And now, he was dead by Dean's hand.

"Was all of this a bluff?" Cas's voice comes and almost startles Dean.

With a quick motion, Dean wipes his eyes, before turning around. "Well, you know me," he says, with a cheeky grin. "What the hell was that thing anyway?"

"Some ancient trickster god or some other creation of my father that ended up on this landfill like the rest of his faulty toys."

"Hm," Dean hums, wiping the blood of the blade into the thing's pants leg. "Can't believe I fell for it for so long. I'm so sorry, Cas. You were here all this time, I can't imagine—"

"It's not your fault, Dean," Cas says, landing his palm on Dean's shoulder. "He fooled the angels, my brethren. You didn't stand a chance. He snatched me as soon as we appeared in Purgatory, imprisoned me here, stole my grace and studied me like a monkey."

"So even when I found you here, it wasn't you?"

Cas shakes his head.

"Fuck—" Dean already misses the times when he thought God being the bad guy took the cake. "Well, then, come here."

Dean hands Cas back his blade and wraps his arms around him as tight as his arms will let him, burying his nose in Cas's filthy collar. Cas's arms curl around the small of Dean's back.

For a moment it's like they're back, those eight years ago and Dean has just found Cas in this craphole, except it's Cas, this time, real Cas.

"How did you know my blade would work, anyway?" Cas asks when they pull away.

Right. "Because it worked the last time Lucifer stabbed you, er, him with it. And yeah, he's probably gonna be back, we'll get your grace back then."

For a moment Cas looks like he's not sure where to even start. "Lucifer?"

"Don't worry, me and Michael two-point-oh killed him," Dean smirks at him.

"Michael what?"

Dean might be slightly enjoying the deer in the headlights look on Cas's face. Poor guy's got so much catching up to do he might go into anaphylactic shock.

"Know what, buddy?" Dean says, throwing one arm around Cas's shoulder. They got no time for standing here and chatting. "How about we first get the flower I'm here for and then I'll tell you everything from start to the grand, _grand_ finish, huh?"

It's a good thing they got a long, long way ahead of them.


End file.
